


Tracery

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Foreplay, Kissing, M/M, Marriage, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Takeshi loves Hayato’s skin." For his birthday, there's only one thing Takeshi really wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tracery

Takeshi loves Hayato’s skin. He loves all of it, from the faint suggestion of freckles that collect across Hayato’s cheekbones in the summer to the scars that trace pale across the other’s hands or the dark spray of burn marks along one arm from a poorly-constructed bomb and a too-short fuse. He likes the way he can see the blue tracery of veins in Hayato’s wrists and against the tops of his feet, and he likes the way the weight of the everpresent ring on Hayato’s left hand has left a line of skin even paler than its surroundings on the rare occasions Takeshi sees it absent. Takeshi likes the way the gold tan of his own sword-scarred hands look against Hayato’s ankles, hips, knees, likes the way he can see Hayato shiver with ticklish friction when Takeshi touches him too lightly, and he likes it now: with his shoulders fitting into the open sprawl of Hayato’s legs, one arm caught under Hayato’s knee and the other angled up to drape across the tremor of his stomach as Takeshi fits his mouth to the inside of Hayato’s thigh and presses the shape of kisses against the pale skin there.

“Fuck,” Hayato says from over him. He has a hand in Takeshi’s hair, his fingers twisting into a grip that would probably be painful if Takeshi weren’t too heat-hazed to mind the tug; the other arm is up over him, Takeshi thinks, bracing against the headboard or fisting at the sheets in that way Hayato always does after Takeshi’s been kissing him for a few minutes. “Are you planning on spending all day on foreplay, Takeshi?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums without pulling away. “Maybe.” He opens his mouth, parting his lips against the inside curve of Hayato’s thigh; when he licks wet against the other’s skin he can feel Hayato shudder, can feel the tension tremble through his stomach and tighten in his legs. “Can’t I do what I want today?”

“It being your birthday doesn’t give you the right to be a tease,” Hayato informs him. His fingers ease in Takeshi’s hair as the other draws back to take a breath against his skin; Takeshi can feel the weight of Hayato’s ring catch against the strands, tugging friction against his scalp like a reminder of the jewelry’s presence. “If you’re going to be like that at least let me jerk off first.”

“Aww,” Takeshi says, blinking up to meet Hayato’s gaze with the best smile he can muster. It’s not hard to find; it forms itself from the warmth in his veins and the purr of affection weighting his chest. “No, don’t do that.”

Hayato narrows his eyes at him, but it’s a weak attempt at irritation; his mouth is tight on a repressed smile, and his breathing is coming fast enough to speak more to his arousal than his frustration. “Then stop _teasing_ me. Unless it’s that you just like seeing me suffer?”

“No,” Takeshi says, and leans down again to weight Hayato’s skin with another kiss. Hayato’s head goes back against the sheets, his throat works on a whine, and Takeshi slides higher up the bed, urging Hayato’s legs farther apart with the angle of his shoulders. “I want you to feel good.” Another kiss, higher up this time; Hayato’s knee slides wider reflexively, like he’s making an offering of the pale skin, and Takeshi opens his mouth to suck against him, letting the friction of his teeth drag so Hayato jolts and trembles against the bed. He’s hard against his stomach, the head of his cock slick with precome; Takeshi angles his arm down across Hayato’s body, shifting until he can ghost his fingertips against the flushed weight of the other’s cock. Hayato hisses reaction, his thighs straining to buck his hips up off the bed, and Takeshi slides his mouth higher and catches the edge of his teeth against the inside crease of Hayato’s thigh.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hayato says succinctly, his fingers dragging at Takeshi’s hair as if to urge him higher, closer, farther along the tremor of motion in his leg. “ _Takeshi_.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums without pulling away. His fingertips brace against Hayato’s length, catching just against the sensitive head to press sensation out into the other’s body; Hayato’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush, his hips canting up in another desperate bid for motion, and Takeshi lets the contact he has with Hayato’s thigh go to press close between his legs. He breathes out against Hayato’s skin, catches his mouth just against the base of the other’s cock for a moment; Hayato groans, his balls tightening at the heat, and Takeshi pulls away again in spite of the friction of Hayato’s fingers in his hair, trailing his fingers down against the curve of the other’s cock as he goes.

“Oh fuck,” Hayato says, sounding a little frustrated and a lot shaky. “Fuck you, Takeshi.” His leg shifts, his knee sliding wider; Takeshi can see the strain of the angle against the bruised-in marks his mouth has left at Hayato’s thigh, can see the effort trembling under Hayato’s skin. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m not,” Takeshi says, but he doesn’t wait for an answer; he’s too drawn by the tremor in the other’s body, pulled closer by the magnetism Hayato has always had for him. His nose bumps warm skin, his hair catches at Hayato’s thigh, and then he licks hot against the other’s entrance and Hayato curses in a rush, Italian spilling from his tongue with the fluidity his Japanese cursing never quite has. It sounds musical, even with the strain under the words that suggests the actual meaning more than any real understanding on Takeshi’s part; Takeshi can feel the sound purr down his spine like a wave cresting in his blood, like the vibration is catching against his skin to shiver electricity across his body. He slides his hand free from under Hayato’s thigh, braces his fingers wide against the other’s knee, and moves again, pressing his tongue warm against Hayato’s skin while Hayato blurts involuntary sound into the air. His leg flexes, his heel pressing to the bed to arch himself up higher, and Takeshi lets him, takes advantage of the shift in angle to push closer between Hayato’s kiss-marked thighs. Hayato’s cock is hot under his fingertips, the head going slick with another spill of liquid as Takeshi moves, and the fingers in his hair are dragging, now, forming a rhythm of pressure as if to urge Takeshi to more.

“Fuck,” Hayato says, regaining some measure of coherency from the heat in the back of his throat. “Takeshi, _please_.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, agreement and pleasure tangled too close to separate on his tongue, and curls his fingers just around the head of the other’s cock as he pushes past Hayato’s entrance with the force of his tongue. Hayato groans again, the sound resonating in his throat like distant thunder, and Takeshi tightens his hold like he’s bracing Hayato in place as he thrusts deeper into him. Hayato’s hot around him, clenching into waves of heat as Takeshi licks farther into his body, and Takeshi can hear the other’s breathing coming hard over his head but mostly it’s the movement demanding Takeshi’s attention, the tremor running through Hayato’s legs angled open around his shoulders catching and holding his focus. Takeshi’s hard against the bed, can feel desire purring along his spine like electricity captured close by his veins, but he doesn’t reach down to fit a hand around himself; it’s better like this, with his fingers weighting at the inside of Hayato’s knee and his hand stroking slow sensation up against Hayato’s cock. Hayato’s shaking against the sheets, his legs trembling like they’ve forgotten how to be still, but his fingers are steady, his grip in Takeshi’s hair unshakeable as Takeshi fucks into him with the press of his tongue.

“God,” Hayato manages, and Takeshi can hear the accent in his voice, can pick out the shape of foreign vowels under his tongue like they’re spilling out of him in time with the press of Takeshi’s movement. “Fuck, Takeshi, right there, you’re--” and Takeshi pushes in harder, tightens his hold on Hayato’s length, and Hayato moans hot incoherence against the air as he sags against the bed. “ _Fuck_ , like that.” Takeshi hums, his lack of words as much a contributing factor as his current inability to muster clear speech, and Hayato hisses at the vibration, his cock jerking a fresh rush of heat against Takeshi’s grip. “ _Takeshi_.”

Takeshi doesn’t pull away for a while. There’s something enthralling about being like this, with the tremor of Hayato’s reactions made too clear in the shudder of his body for the other to even attempt denial, and besides he’s feeling warm all through his body, his motions guided as much by instinct as by conscious thought, as if this is where he was always meant to be, like the rest of his life is accessory to this ultimate goal of working Gokudera Hayato to trembling compliance under the friction of his hands and fingers and tongue. It’s not until Hayato is gasping through his inhales that Takeshi collects himself again, not until he can feel the convulsive shudders of pleasure tensing into a rhythm around the intrusion of his tongue that he draws back and away to blink himself back into clarity as Hayato whines protest on the bed.

“Don’t stop,” Hayato says as Takeshi pushes back to come up over his knees, as Hayato lets his grip on Takeshi’s hair go to angle his arm over his face instead. The shadow of the barrier hides his eyes, covers the dark behind the green that Takeshi knows is there, but it doesn’t matter; Takeshi can still see the part of Hayato’s lips, can see the damp flush clinging there as much as to the slick head of his cock under Takeshi’s dragging fingers. “Fuck, Takeshi, you can’t stop like that.”

“I know,” Takeshi says, and lets his hold on Hayato’s cock go, unwinding his fingers so he can brace himself alongside Hayato’s hip and lean forward to reach over the bed.

“I know it’s your birthday,” Hayato says, and he’s lifting his arm as Takeshi stretches, reaching out to press the weight of his fingers against Takeshi’s hip instead of covering his eyes. “And I know I said you can do whatever you want, but you _can’t_ leave it like that.”

“I’m not,” Takeshi says, and closes his fingers on the bottle by the head of the bed so he can rock back over the sheets and free both hands to open the lid. “It’s okay, Hayato, I won’t.”

“It’s not enough to leave me to jerk myself off,” Hayato says like he hasn’t heard, like he’s not watching Takeshi uncap the bottle and spill slick liquid out across his fingers. “You can’t get me going and then just leave me to my own devices.”

“I know.”

“You have to--” Hayato starts, and Takeshi sets the bottle aside and reaches to rest his hand against Hayato’s hip. Hayato’s breath hisses, his body rocks up, and his sentence dies to a groan of anticipation as Takeshi reaches down to slide slick fingers against him. “At least finger me open while I get off.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, and pushes, letting his fingers slide past the stretched-open slick of Hayato’s entrance. Hayato’s head goes back, his hair catching and tangling against the pillow, and Takeshi loses his breath in time with Hayato’s groan, like the air in his lungs is trying to get closer to the other’s. “I know.”

“Fuck,” Hayato says, still with his head tipped back, and he’s tightening his fingers at Takeshi’s hip, dragging as if to urge the other closer as Takeshi pushes deeper into him. “Really the polite thing to do would be to help me out yourself.” Takeshi curls his fingers, presses inside the heat of Hayato around him, and Hayato chokes on a breath, his body tensing hard against Takeshi’s fingers. “ _God_.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and then he starts to move, drawing his fingers back so he can push harder into the other. Hayato hisses, his cock twitching against his stomach, and Takeshi wants to touch him but he doesn’t, just keeps his hand steady against Hayato’s hip as he works him open. Hayato is panting for air, rocking up to meet the forward push of the other’s fingers, and if Takeshi looks down he can see the flush of color still lingering from his mouth on Hayato’s thighs, can see the imprint of his lips left in bruised-in red against the pale. “You’re so beautiful.”

Hayato huffs a breathless laugh around the strain in his throat. “I know you think so,” he says, and looks back down to blink at Takeshi, to let the weight of his lashes drag Takeshi’s attention back to the silvered green of his eyes. “Doesn’t fucking your beautiful husband for your birthday sound like a good idea?”

Takeshi laughs out loud at that, spilling the sound easy from his throat without stilling the rhythm of his hand. “Yes,” he says, and tightens his hold at Hayato’s hip so he can lean in closer to him. Hayato lets his brace against the wall go to reach up instead and catch his fingers back into Takeshi’s hair, and when Takeshi tips in for a kiss Hayato is waiting for him, his lashes dipping into shadow even before Takeshi’s lips have touched his. Hayato is tense, straining up in answer to the push of Takeshi’s fingers into him, but Takeshi is gentle, careful about fitting his lips against the set of Hayato’s until they even out against each other. He draws his fingers back, Hayato lets his exhale go in a rush, and Takeshi pulls back by the span of inches, just enough to see Hayato’s face as he shifts his knees wider and reaches to close his slick fingers around his cock. “It sounds like a great idea.”

“I know it does,” Hayato tells him. He looks down to the drag of Takeshi’s hand, his mouth setting on focus; when he hooks the weight of a leg around Takeshi’s hip Takeshi submits to the suggestion and lets himself tip in and closer to fit between Hayato’s thighs. Hayato’s hand lifts from his hip, comes up to reach across his shoulders instead, and Takeshi lets his hold on himself go to brace against the bed instead, to steady his elbow up over Hayato’s shoulder and hold himself up as he fits himself into place. Hayato’s steering him as much as instinct is, the pull of his hands and the angle of his legs giving instruction better than words would, and then Hayato looks up, and Takeshi leans in, and his mouth catches Hayato’s just as he rocks his hips forward to slide into the heat of Hayato’s body. The fingers in his hair tense, there’s a sound lost between Hayato’s throat and Takeshi’s tongue, and Takeshi’s whimpering relief of his own, his whole body thrumming satisfaction at the friction of Hayato drawing tight around him. It’s an easy motion, the forward angle of his body uninterrupted as he rocks forward until his hips are flush with Hayato’s, and then they both go still for a moment, Takeshi breathing hard against Hayato’s mouth while Hayato’s fingers work convulsively in his hair. There’s a heartbeat of hesitation, a breath for Takeshi to savour the first shudder of reaction along his spine; then he rocks back, and slides forward again, and Hayato’s eyelashes flutter shut, his throat works on a groan, and Takeshi shuts his eyes and loses himself to the rhythm between them.

His body moves on its own. His legs flex, his shoulders brace to slide himself forward and into Hayato, and Hayato’s arching up to meet him, pulling Takeshi in closer by the angle of his leg and dragging at his hair like he’s trying to find his breath from Takeshi’s mouth directly. The head of his cock bumps Takeshi’s stomach, sliding slick against the skin, and Takeshi recollects himself enough to let Hayato’s hip go and draw his fingers sideways for a grip on the flushed skin. Hayato hisses an exhale, the sound of it harsh on another curse too low to be heard at all, and Takeshi presses his nose against Hayato’s cheekbone and his lips to the corner of Hayato’s mouth and lets himself go, lets his body and his hand find an easy rhythm between them while Hayato shudders and tenses under him. Hayato’s hot to the touch, flushing harder against Takeshi’s palm with each stroke he takes, and the drag of Takeshi’s hand is enough to bring Hayato clenching harder around his cock, the wave of sensation catching from one of them to the other like they’re a single entity, like the friction and the heat of their breathing and motion is being shared seamlessly over the minimal gap between their bodies. Takeshi can’t find his breath, isn’t sure he needs to; his heart is pounding harder and harder in his chest, his thoughts going dizzy-drunk on pleasure and heat and the whimpering notes of reaction spilling up Hayato’s throat. His eyes are shut, he thinks, the warm dark behind his eyelids going hotter with every thrust he takes, and then Hayato gasps an inhale and arches his back and Takeshi can feel the other’s orgasm hit him, can feel it break and shudder through Hayato’s body pinned under him like Takeshi’s weight is the only thing there to hold him together. Hayato’s shaking under him, gasping air like he’s forgotten how to breathe as he spills hot over Takeshi’s hold, and then he groans “ _Takeshi_ ” with all the liquid vowels of Italy on his tongue, and Takeshi moans a faint, helpless sound against Hayato’s mouth and comes as if he had been ordered to, gasping through waves of pleasure that knock everything out of his head but the sound of Hayato’s breathing, but the heat of Hayato’s skin pressed close against his. Takeshi’s fingers are in Hayato’s hair, his mouth is against Hayato’s jaw, and he can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything except quiver breathless satisfaction over Hayato under him.

Takeshi comes back to himself slowly, piece by piece, like he’s framing himself from the weight of Hayato’s touch: the fingers tangled in his hair, the leg angled around his hip, the arm draped over his shoulders. He thinks to unwind his sticky fingers from Hayato’s softening cock after a moment, the action surprisingly complex in his heat-fogged brain; Hayato sighs at the friction and lets his hand ease in Takeshi’s hair like he’s letting the last of the tension in his body go. Takeshi rocks backwards, lets himself ease free of Hayato’s body, and when he tips sideways Hayato follows him, turning to roll onto his shoulder so they’re facing each other across the few inches of the bed between them.

“Well,” Hayato says, sounding very nearly like himself again, with only the faintest shimmer of heat still clinging to the back of his throat. “Are you satisfied?”

“Mm,” Takeshi smiles. “Yes.” He catches his fingers into Hayato’s hair, leans in to fit a kiss to the corner of the other’s mouth, and Hayato smiles against his lips and shuts his eyes to the weight of the contact. “Are you?”

“Hm.” Hayato frowns as Takeshi pulls away, his forehead creasing as if with real consideration. “For now, I suppose.”

“That’s okay.” Takeshi kisses against Hayato’s cheek, shifts over the sheets to press his lips to the other’s collarbone; Hayato huffs a laugh and tips back over the bed to give Takeshi a better angle at his skin. “I think I’d like to give you a blowjob later, too.” He looks up through his lashes at Hayato, feels his mouth curving into a smile. “Since it’s my birthday.”

Hayato huffs. “Demanding,” he says, but his mouth is curving into an irrepressible smile, and his fingers in Takeshi’s hair are gentle. “I guess I don’t have any choice, do I?” Takeshi laughs, and Hayato smiles, and Takeshi ducks his head to fit his nose into the dip between Hayato’s collarbones and breathe in against the warm flush on his skin.

The weight of Hayato’s ring catches gentle in his hair.


End file.
